


Five Times Death Won (and one time it didn't)

by LittleBuddy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, A study of death, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Protective Sandor Clegane, Sandor as a kid because that's something I want to see, enemies to partners in crime?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-19 08:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBuddy/pseuds/LittleBuddy
Summary: Death, Sandor Clegane, and Arya Stark walk in to a bar.Not literally. A study on death as a close friend to these two, and how it intertwines their lives.





	1. Chapter 1

He crouched under the trough in the corner stall, muscles tense, listening for his pursuer. He knew the horses might give him away – already, they were chuffing at the boy. They could smell him, Sandor knew. Sure, he looked a fright, but the smell from the wound and the salve on it was what upset them. Horses didn’t care what you looked like, or who you were, that much was obvious. They never kicked Gregor off, never bucked when he took to the saddle. Since the burns, though, they'd acted differently to Sandor. He couldn't blame them, when he thought about it. He'd been upset, at first, but on further thought, decided the horses were in the right. Who wouldn't be afraid of a monster?

“Where could he be...”

Hay dust rose and danced in sunlight that had crawled through the old stable roofing. He held his breath. The voice grew nearer, and then farther away, eventually disappearing. After a few moments, he dared a glance around the stall door. Nothing. A pause, and he crept from his spot, keeping low and moving steadily. At the door to the stables, he peered through a knothole into the courtyard. Still nothing, no noise, no movement besides the usual bustling of the yard. 

Moving steadily, he straightened up and walked casually into the courtyard, prepared to make his way across it, and fell in step beside one of the kitchen girls, the basket on her hip partially hiding him from view. When they hit the path down to the kitchen, Sandor ducked beneath a trellis of ivy and crossed into the garden. There, at the back, behind the statue with the cracked face, was a rusted iron gate. He opened it, wincing as the metal screamed shut, and took off down the foot path to the derelict bridge the children sometimes swam from. He brushed floppy brown hair from his eyes, hair sticking to sticky fingers.

Without warning, he was sent sprawling to the ground, rolling in the dust.

“Ha! I got you.”

Sandor groaned, sticking a hand to his lip. He tasted metal – sure enough, his lip was bleeding.

Juni stuck a hand out. Her long fingers clasped his small hand and pulled him to his feet. She knelt down to him, brushing him off. 

“You’re getting slower, little brother.” She dabbed at his lip with her dress hem.

“Am not.” He grimaced in a way only disgruntled six year olds can, pushing her hands away. “You’re just getting faster.”

She laughed, throwing her head back. Sandor couldn’t help but smile, then. Not many people laughed around him much, not lately - except Juni. She’d become even more determined to spend time with him, making him laugh, playing games. They’d play often, when their brother wasn’t around – hide and seek in the yard, wrestling indoors when it was raining. Sometimes, if she could convince her father to let him go with her, they’d go pick berries along the outer walls. Once their baskets were filled, they’d find their swords where they’d hidden them – two wooden sticks, rid of protruding branches, names carved into the bark – and play at sword fighting. Nobody ever questioned them – bruises on two rambunctious children were easily dismissed.

Juni wasn’t easy on him, and he often found himself frustrated, determined to do better the next time, but he would never have traded the time with her for anything. Besides, keeping busy meant he didn’t see his brother as much – a welcome respite from the constant hazing Gregor subjected him to.

“Hey, you two. I want to play.”

Sandor’s stomach turned a summersault. The invisible bugs that had become so familiar of late began their leggy crawl up the back of his scalp, heat rising in his cheeks. Gregor was hardly four years older than Sandor, two years older than Juni, but he stood a good head and a half above either of them. Lifting his eyes to their older brother, he took inventory of him. That was something Juni had taught him – something she’d read, she said. _“You need to take inventory every once in a while. Of yourself, how you feel, of the people around you, what they’re going to do. Be aware, San.”_

Gregor was sweaty, grinning. He’d been training, something that seemed to truly bring him joy – sparring the boys his age was like swatting slow flies. In Gregor’s hand, he held jousting lances. His arm was slung through the straps of two round shields, the decorative paint mostly chipped away from years of wear.

“We’re done playing,” Juni said. “It’s time to clean up for meal time, father said.”

Sandor glanced at Juni. Father hadn’t said any such thing, not that he had heard anyway, but the steadfast look on her face almost had him convinced. He knew what she was doing – Gregor did what he liked, unless father was involved – then he thought twice, usually before going ahead and doing what he liked anyway.

“He didn’t, either. I was just with him.”

Juni narrowed her eyes. “Well, we’re done playing anyway. Sandor has things to do.”

“Like play. Play joust,” Gregor said. "That's what he has to do."

Sandor placed a hand on his stomach, willing himself not to throw up. Why he couldn’t be more brave, stronger, he didn’t know. He wished now that he hadn’t come out of his hiding spot at all. He could’ve stayed there a long time, well after dinner. He’d done it before – Juni, on occasion, would come to him in a rush and tell him they were going to practice hiding for a long time. She would come get him, sometimes hours later, and always reward him for being so diligent, so good at the game – sometimes it was a sweet roll, sometimes it was a bedtime story. He wouldn’t come to understand until later in life the correlation between the time he spent hiding and his brother’s incredibly foul moods – wouldn’t understand that she’d been hiding him, protecting him, not playing a game.

“He’s too little to play joust,” Juni said, but Gregor was already in motion, disentangling his arm from the shields.

“He’s not.”

“He wouldn’t be of any real challenge, Gregor.” She moved to stand in front of Sandor. In a fit of defiance, he stepped out from behind her. 

“I can do it,” he said. He dropped his hand from his stomach and stood up tall, meeting his brother’s eyes. In them glowered a level of malice he had become used to seeing – a glare he’d been seeing every night in his dreams for the last four weeks, ever since that day with the toy knight –

“Shut up!” Juni hissed down at him. He broke eye contact with his brother, looking up at her in confusion. Her angry look eased when he looked up at her, and she shook her head slowly. “Don’t. Please.”

“I’m being brave, like you keep telling me to be.”

“He’s being brave, little sister.” Gregor shrugged. “Let him be.”

Gregor threw one of the lances at Sandor. It rolled to a stop when it hit his foot. Juni glared at the older boy, defiance gleaming in her brown eyes. 

“I’ll beat you.”

Sandor’s head snapped around to his sister. Was she crazy? Gregor laughed, and the sound seemed to fill her sails with anger.

“What is it, Gregor? Afraid you’ll get beaten by a little girl?” She picked up the lance. Sandor grabbed at her skirt, but she strode forward, ripping out of his grip. “You don’t want to fight me because you’re worried you might have to tell everyone your little sister beat you like a stray dog, hmm?”

Gregor’s smile had slipped some. He growled. “Fine. I just wanted to play.” He shrugged, hoisting his own lance to his shoulder. “We’ll play.”

Juni marched to the edge of the water, and took a pace away from it. Gregor followed suit, then they paced off the distance and turned to face each other.

“On his call,” Gregor said, glancing at his little brother.

Sandor felt his voice freeze in his chest, but without knowing how or where it came from, he spoke. The two ran at each other, and at the last moment, Juni dropped to her knees and rolled over her shoulder. Gregor’s lance dropped enough to smack her on the back, but nothing more.

They turned again. Juni planted the lance firm and took off at a sprint. Gregor sped up, and the two clashed where they met, both lances striking a firm blow. Gregor continued forward, but Juni faltered before regaining her step. She steadied herself and made to continue on –

“Gregor! Juni, du-“

The great crack of bone meeting stone filled the air with a heavy whoosh, and then Sandor was rushing forward, pushing past his older brother, kneeling beside Juni.

“You’ve killed her! You’ve killed her!” Small hands reached to cradle her head, and her eyes fluttered, filling with tears. One ran swiftly down her cheek to join the blood on the stones beneath her. 

“Oh, Sandor. Don’t cry. Just remember. It's okay, I promise," she said, nodding. "'s'okay." She reached up, grabbing his hand. Sandor was intensely aware of everything - his sticky fingers gripping hers, the hot tears sliding down his face, the ache in his cheek, the blood trickling into the grass, her grip loosening ever so slightly on his hand.

“See? Twat, she's not dead. Gods. I could fix that, though." 

Sandor felt the bugs leave in an instant, his scalp suddenly boiling hot, blood pumping in his ears. He looked up at Gregor, meeting his eyes.

“I will kill you, I will. I’ll kill you, I swear it.” He looked down at Juni. She was blinking a lot, he noticed. Her throat seemed to be working on something that wouldn’t come. Sandor repeated his statement. “I’ll kill him, I will. I’ll kill him, Juni.” 

Without warning, Sandor felt himself shoved aside. Juni’s body rose, scooped up in two thick arms. Sandor screamed, or thought he did – he wasn’t sure who was screaming – and crawled after his brother, clawing at his legs, gripping his pants. Searing pain ran down his face and neck as a boot made contact with the tender, fresh skin. 

Sandor watched, lying on his side, all the feeling gone out of him, deflated, breathing dirt in and watching through tears as his last connection to the world was pushed into the water. Later, they’d say that young Juni Clegane had slipped and hit her head on the stone bridge, plunging into the water, and that try as he might have, Gregor couldn’t stop the bleeding. The first guard who’d heard the cries and come running would say the younger Clegane brother had been lying in the dirt, screaming hysterical nonsense and holding his face.

Only under the blanket of night, when animal and human alike bedded down for the night and only the few were left around the fire, would they speak of it again.

They’d talk about fires and slips on stones and little boys with ruined faces, and bigger boys with ruined souls. They’d talk about whispers and rumors and the scars that fed them. They’d say there wasn’t any hope. They’d say the hysterical screams hadn’t been unfounded. They’d say Gregor might be the threat, but Sandor might be the end.

They’d say death came easily to a family that was built on it.


	2. Chapter 2

The torches were like firebugs – giant, hot firebugs, seeking her out. Arya sat completely still on her perch in the tree, rear end gone numb long ago. Her stomach growled, clenching tightly. She was hungry – she’d been hungry since that afternoon. Mycah was a fair training partner, albeit slow, and she’d worked up quite the appetite. Then her sister and Joffrey had come along, and that had given her another reason entirely to have an upset stomach.

_Sansa._

She ground her teeth together, and thought briefly that if she kept that up, she wouldn’t have teeth left. Her jaw was sore from clenching down in anger. She was angry at Joffrey for being a right twat, she was angry at Sansa for being so stupid, but she was overly angry at herself, playing the scene over and over in her head, wishing Nymeria had bit Joffrey’s throat out. Nymeria. Arya’s stomach twisted again. She did what she had to do – they would’ve killed Nymeria already had Arya not run her off. All she could do now was pray she stayed away. The thought made tears spring to her eyes, and she ground her teeth again.

The voices grew closer, until a few foot soldiers passed under her tree. She could’ve dropped directly down on them when they stopped beneath her.

“-don’t really care about finding her,” one of the Lannister men was saying. “It’s really about that wolf. The queen hates them.”

“They stand for everything she’s against, so why not?”

“We won’t find it now, not with all this damned noise. Like trying to sneak up on a rabbit in a bramble thicket.”

“If the moon were brighter we might could see the girl,” one commented. As though cued, they looked to the sky – and up, directly at Arya.

By the time she realized that her father was still searching for her, she was almost before the king and queen. Ushered into the room, she saw first Cersei’s face, smugness written across her narrow features. Joffrey stood beside her, a near mirror of his mother. The king himself was the only one she wasn’t immediately wary of.

“It is wonderful to see that you’re safe and intact,” Cersei said, her tone saying the complete opposite. Arya glanced at Joffrey’s arm, biting back a grin at the bandage. Just then, Ned Stark strode into the room. Arya felt her body flood with relief, falling into his arms. He smelled of sweat and leather and forest, and she squeezed him closer.  
“What is the meaning of this?”

Arya heard the conversation almost as though she were floating beside her body. When they brought Sansa in, she felt a sharp tug, and came back to herself. This was unexpected – and bad. Sansa would tell the truth, wouldn’t she? Arya wasn’t sure, not anymore. She listened, heart beating against her throat.

“I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” 

Arya felt like slapping her sister. Maybe she would, just for that.

“I didn’t see,” Sansa continued. Arya flew forward, grabbed Sansa by the hair, the cloak – it was bad enough that nobody would speak up against Joffrey, but for her own sister to refuse to speak the truth for her own blood –

“Liar!” Arya yanked on her fistful of hair, pulling harder even as she felt her father trying to separate them. “Liar, liar! You know what happened, you saw him!”

“Stop! Arya!” Ned pulled her aside, grasping her tightly by the forearm. She wanted to hit him, too. Wanted to hit everyone, wanted to hit Joffrey between the eyes with her fist, wanted to make him hurt. She heard Cersei’s comment, heard the queen call her wild, and a flare of pride burst in her chest. 

“Damn it! Children fight.” Robert shook his head in exasperation, and Arya tore her eyes away from glaring at Sansa to glance at the king. She saw him as she’d yet to see him thus far – a tired father, torn between a wife and child and his best friend. “It’s over.”

“Joffrey will bear these scars for the rest of his life.” Another burst of pride as Cersei spoke. Arya hoped they never faded. 

Robert scoffed. “You let that little girl disarm you?” He shook his head, spoke some more, but Arya hardly heard it. This was almost over. It would all be fine.

“And what of the beast that savaged your son?”

Arya looked up at Robert. Nymeria was gone, it was confirmed.

“No? So be it. We have another wolf.” 

Arya realized she was crying. She heard her sister’s pleas, heard her father question Robert with an edge in his voice she hadn’t heard in some time, and she heard the silence that answered it the loudest of all the noise, watched Robert leave the room. _Coward,_ she thought. He couldn’t even give the command. He knew he was wrong, and he didn’t do anything. 

Sansa sobbed the whole way to their chambers, and the whole time they got ready for bed, and the whole time she brushed her red hair, and for more than an hour before she finally cried herself to sleep. 

Arya lay beside her sister, tears long since dried, staring at the dark of the ceiling and imagining all the ways she would make Joffrey regret ever coming to the river that day.

-

“Septa?”

“Arya, Gods be good, if this is about the table etiquette again-“

“No,” Arya said. She looked up from the book she’d been failing to study for the last thirty minutes, mind elsewhere. “I had a question.”

The septa gazed at her expectantly. Arya bit her lip. 

“What would you say bravery is?”

Sansa glanced up from her own book across the wooden table from Arya. They’d hardly spoken more than was necessary to each other in the last week – and Arya would have it no other way.

“The opposite of conformity.”

“Conformi-“

“Conformity. To behave in such a way that you are seen publically correct.”

“So bravery would be the behave in such a way that you’re maybe seen incorrect?”

The septa lay her needlework in her lap. “I suppose so.”

Arya nodded. “Then what is the Hound?”

“Arya, really?” Sansa couldn’t hold back now. 

“I’m being serious.” Arya meant it. Okay, maybe she was instigating a little – she would do anything to step on Sansa’s metaphorical toes at this point, and she wasn’t above pushing her in front of the septa. “Killing Mycah was wrong, I think we can all agree. Even slow Jeyne can agree on that.”

“Yes, it was an act of senseless brutality,” the septa agreed. 

“But,” Sansa cut her off, “he was ordered to.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Arya shook her head. “That’s a lie, a good one, unlike the one you told the other night.”

_She’d been creeping around the kitchen the night before, scrounging for leftovers. Her father had sent her to bed without dinner, punishment for what he called “needless harassing of your sister” and “unacceptable” and so on. She rounded the corner, stopping when she saw her father sitting with Jory. They were drinking quietly, neither speaking. Arya had almost turned to go, accepting her rumbling stomach with bitter resignation, but then Jory spoke._

_“They say the boy was brought back in a hundred pieces.”_

_Her father took another drink, shook his head. Jory raised an eyebrow in the Hand’s direction. Ned sighed. “I saw Clegane bring him in.”_

_Jory’s voice was almost low enough she couldn’t hear him. “I’m not sure I’d be able to follow orders if I were told to kill a child for no nameable crime.”_

_“He wasn’t ordered,” Ned said. “Robert didn’t expect the boy to be brought back dead. I’m glad I wasn’t the one who had to explain to Mycah’s father.”_

_Arya crept back to her room, all thoughts of eating gone._

“Arya.” Septa Mordane’s voice held warning.

“My father said. I heard him,” she said. “Ask him if you want,” she glared at Sansa, “but I’m not arguing with you about this.” She turned her attention back to the septa.

“What do you want me to say, child? I am sorry.” Septa Mordane’s face softened. “I know he was your friend.”

“He’s a coward, though, isn’t he? All he does is exactly what he’s told, so despite that nobody agrees with almost anything he does –“

“Arya.” The septa placed a hand on Arya’s forearm. “Have you tried another angle?”

“Which one?” 

“If you can see from the angle of your enemy, you have the widest view.”

Arya frowned. “What angle could there be? He’s horrible, he’s a murderer, he-“

“He’s a man, who killed a young boy for pretending to be a knight, when he himself had his face burnt inside out for playing with his brother’s toy knight. If he had brought Mycah back for Joffrey, I imagine the torment would’ve been much more prolonged.”

“You’re saying he’s good?” Arya could hardly believe her ears.

“No. But bravery and goodness do not always go hand in hand, just as cowardice and evil do not. Let it be a lesson to the both of you.” The septa stood. “It’s time for bed.”

Arya dreamt that night of home, and of her mother. Then she dreamt of a dog, bleeding profusely from deep wounds all over it’s body. Arya thought she could smell the copper. The dog whimpered, licking tentatively at the wounds. After each swipe of his tongue, the dog seemed to grow – not in stature, but in ferocity. It became a snarling, dark mess, with eyes that flashed black. It rose, teeth bared, and bent to drink from a dark pool. The head raised, dripping red, and then it turned to face her, and her heart almost stopped in terrified recognition. Half the dog’s face was nothing but smoldered bone.

She woke, panting, sweat dripping from her back. She knew, now. He was neither brave nor a coward, simply the hound who’d been ruined on the taste of blood while licking his own wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I feel about this one, but here it is.


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep. Steal a pie from where it cooled in an open window. Share pie with stray dog. Scratch at fleas. Sleep. Kill pigeons, kill rats. Sometimes eat rats, sometimes sell pigeons. Sleep. Wonder if a person can train a pigeon to carry a message like a raven. Give up the idea. Sleep. Think of Jon, think of Robb, think of her father in a dark cell, think of Sansa in her fancy clothes somewhere with Joffrey, angrily push stray dog away. Feel bad about it.

Her days had become a dirty blur, passing at such a slowness she felt that she could walk around inside each moment and feel the things happening one by one. Her skin crawled at night, and not just because of the bad dreams. Her head itched relentlessly, as did the spots where her clothes were tightest. She caught a whiff of something horrible one day, lying in the shade under a cart. It took her a few moments before Arya realized it was her own breath she was smelling.

Rising from her spot against a wall, she walked steadily toward the group of pigeons she’d been eyeing. She’d learned that they didn’t move so fast in the busier areas – used to people and used to being ignored, they were easier to catch. Arya thought briefly of how glad she was they weren’t cats, followed by a pang of grief for Syrio.

She bent, and in the flurry of wings, caught one pigeon. He was fat, she noted, snapping its neck. The first time she’d seen it done, a small girl – no older than seven, if that – had caught two, quick as a flash, and in a heartbeat, had twisted their heads. Arya followed the girl, a morbid curiosity coming over her – would she eat them? Did she pull the feathers out or cut it up? Then she’d seen the girl take them, exchange them for two fat, golden potatoes, and hurry off. Arya, bored and lonely, had followed, watching the girl take them back to a small, run down hole of a house, and bury them in the fireplace. The girl had noticed her, then, and had scared her off – hissing at her and making all sorts of grotesque faces. Arya had decided the girl wouldn’t be sharing, and she wouldn’t be staying.

Now, wandering down the street, she kept her eyes peeled for someone to trade with. She smelled the lemon, first – a clean, zesty smell, easy to pick from all the dirty smells – and decided to chance it. It was to no avail – the baker wouldn’t budge, she saw that, and she’d have to steal one if she really wanted one. She wasn’t above it, she knew that much already. She’d almost made up her mind when she noticed the people moving steadily in one direction, voices calling out to follow, they’re taking him to the Sept – 

“What’s going on?”

The boy who ran past her looked back, eyes twinkling with excitement. “They’re taking him to the Sept of Baelor!”

“Who?”

“The Hand of the king!”

Arya felt her heart stop, then start again, stuttering out a pulse that rapidly got faster. Her father, within reach. Maybe they were pardoning him, maybe they could speak, maybe he would see her and call her to him.

The crowd was getting thick, pushing together, voices rising above the tolling of the bells. Arya climbed up, getting out of the throng and into a position where she could actually see. There, her father, being lead along, and Arya could swear that for a moment, they locked eyes. Her stomach hurt in a different way than it had been, a surge of hope and overwhelming affection pushing it’s way up through her.

The crowd was hostile toward him as he made his way to the front, calling out names that Arya knew were lies, had to be. Her gaze followed her father and lit briefly on Sansa, who seemed hardly to be able to contain her smile. That was a good sign, Arya decided. Sansa might be stupid and cruel and weak, but she loved their father – not as much as Arya, maybe, but still. 

Her father’s voice was ringing out over the crowd. “..betrayed the faith of my king, and the trust of my friend Robert.”

That couldn’t be right. Her father was not one to betray anyone, ever. Arya knew this, wanted to scream it as her father continued, owning up to something she knew was a lie. As he finished speaking, the crowd’s voice grew again – a stone flew from the throng, and Arya felt bile rise in her throat as her father staggered back. There was the Hound, pushing him back to the front. Her hand went to Needle. She didn’t know what use she could be against a mob, but she’d rather try than sit still and watch.

“Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the iron throne by the grace of all the Gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the realm.”

This was met by more cries from the crowd, and an elated smile on Joffrey’s face as he turned to his mother in delight. She beamed back at him. Arya channeled every bit of anger she had into glaring at him, wishing he would spontaneously combust.

“As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sigh of Gods and men. The Gods are just. But, Beloved Baelor taught us that they can also be merciful. What is to be done with this, erm.. traitor, your Grace?” Pycelle gestured in the direction of Ned Stark.

The jeering began again. Arya’s grip tightened on Needle’s hilt. 

Joffrey raised his hand, smiling and motioning the crowd to silence. “My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard to the Night’s Watch. Stripped of all titles and power, he would serve the realm in permanent exile.” Arya followed his gaze to Sansa. “And my Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father.”

Sansa smiled at Joffrey.

“But they have the soft hearts of women,” Joffrey continued. Arya felt fingers of fear grip around her heart. “So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished.” Joffrey looked to to her father. “Ser Ilyn – bring me his head.”

Sansa jerked forward, the cry on her lips drowned out as people went wild, cheering and pumping their fists. Arya glanced around – she was surrounded by people who hated her father so much they were cheering for his death, and she suddenly felt very aware of herself, a Stark, there alone on the statue of Baelor. Then she shook herself, mentally chiding herself. Her father was up there alone, too. Sansa was no more a Stark than that bloody Hound was. Steeling herself, Arya ducked between the legs of the statue and slid to the ground.

 _I must reach father._ She pushed through the crowd, ducking under elbows and around tunics and pushing between people, keeping her hand on her sword, ready to draw it as soon as she could. Suddenly, and without warning, she felt herself being grabbed. She yanked away, but the hands were strong.

“Stop! Look at me, look at me!”

Arya knew. She knew who it was Yoren, the man from the Night’s Watch, knew what was happening, knew she was too late. She struggled, a knot rising in her throat. “Let me go! Let me go!” She grunted, pushing him, then pulling, then hiding. One ear pressed to his chest, she felt his hand over her other, felt his steel grip.

She saw the birds go, heard the cheering, and knew. Yoren had come for her, and death had come for Eddard Stark.

-

_“I would think about him when I was working, when I was drinking, when I was having a shit. It got to the point where I would say his name every night before I went to bed.”_

“Joffrey.” She could see him in her mind’s eye, standing next to his mother, smug and pompous, already knowing the fate of her father. “Cersei.” A mother as evil as her son, for she enabled him, and those around him. “Ilyn Payne.” Her chest always tightened on that one. “The Hound.”

Arya shut her eyes tightly, ready to sleep. She’d see the list through. She’d beat death there if she had to.

**Author's Note:**

> Will post more as I get around to it. Feedback makes me post faster.


End file.
